


We Three Kings

by nothing_is_beautiful_and_true



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dialogue Heavy, Drama, Friendship, Humor, Just bros being bros, Multi, Philosophical Discussions, but we'll see, idk if it'll be a romance guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true/pseuds/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true
Summary: While her knights are out questing for the Holy Grail, Artoria stumbles across two gifts left behind by Merlin. If only she could figure out a way to return them.
Relationships: Gilgamesh | Archer/Artoria Pendragon | Saber, Gilgamesh/Iskandar | Archer/Rider
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Camelot was quiet. All the Knights of the Round Table were on a quest for the Holy Grail, and their absences left behind a void. Servants strode through the halls, no longer afraid of Sir Gawain's unruly temper. The beautiful music of Sir Tristram no longer drifted throughout Camelot's courtyards. Sir Mordred and Sir Agravain no longer skulked from the shadows.

But most keenly felt for King Arthur was Sir Lancelot's absence. Although Arthur still went on hunts from time to time, it wasn't the same without his most steadfast companion. When he looked over his shoulder—and saw no one there—his heart became heavy. 

Arthur sat in his study, writing a letter to King Urien. Reports of skirmishes in the north had reached Camelot's walls. Arthur would stand cautious but firm. _That_ woman was Urien's wife, and would no doubt push for prolonged violence if possible. Only the Orkney clan caused him more trouble (and, fittingly, they also had ties to _that_ woman). Pity they were bound by blood, Arthur could've simply exiled them otherwise.

A cloud passed over Arthur’s face. He paused, quill frozen in midair, caught between the past and the present. Arthur was not a large man: at that moment, swathed in noble furs and surrounded by untouched books, he seemed minuscule. Then his expression cleared.

"They would not attempt such a thing if you and the others were still here, eh, Lance?" Arthur asked, speaking to his right. No response. After a brief pause, he nodded in agreement with an unspoken answer, before continuing his writing. Diplomacy was a necessity to keep the peace, no matter how distasteful the company might be.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Enter," Arthur said.

A servant appeared. He bowed his head.

"Your Grace. A... a room was found in the dungeon."

Arthur raised a fair brow. He sat back in his seat, quizzical. "Found?"

The servant nodded, broad mouth ajar and expression gormless. "Aye, Your Grace. Wasn't there before, warden says so. One moment was a wall, the next, well, wasn’t. We tried opening the door to the room but it wouldn't budge. Had a note on it, though, from Merlin. Says anyone not the King of Britain tried to read the note would be turned into a frog. Not that I'da read it anyway, Your Grace."

He indignantly puffed out his chest before offering up the letter.

At the name 'Merlin', Arthur straightened. His expression became distant.

"Thank you." Arthur accepted the letter. The servant's face lit up and he bowed enthusiastically before taking his leave, a newfound spring in his step.

The note was thick, heavy parchment, folded several times over. Merlin's _charming_ warning adorned the front, a familiar, spidery cursive scrawl _._ Arthur opened it.

_Artoria,_

It had been years since she'd seen or heard that name. Surprised, she glanced up and around the study. It remained empty. Artoria frowned, then resumed reading. 

_If you're reading this, several things are undoubtedly true. One, I've been betrayed and am no longer around to provide you with my enduring wisdom._

_Two, the Holy Grail has appeared._

She recalled the echo of a most wonderful odor, suddenly, a fading memory of fluttering samite. And loss. Keen, cutting loss. The Round Table would never again be as it once was.

 _If this is the case, two gifts I prepared for you long ago are now available in my Secret Mystery Dungeon of Magic and Vaguely Ominous Portents_ ™ _. They will serve you well._

_Of course, it's very possible I've gotten my when's mixed up again and none of this has happened yet. It can all get rather muddled you know. If that's the case, disregard this letter in its entirety. Burn it, eat it, stick a paperweight on it, doesn't matter to me._

_Sincerely,_

_Merlin_

_P.S. Inform Kay that he's still an absolute muppet at your earliest convenience._

Artoria rubbed her temple. Merlin was infuriating an enigma as ever, even beyond the grave. Then she set the letter aside. The issue with the King of Gore took precedence. But she had to admit she was curious, and her curiosity gnawed at her while she worked.

...

The Secret Mystery Dungeon of Magic and Vaguely Ominous Portent™ was surprisingly mundane. It lacked the various theatrical flourishes plaguing any room touched by Merlin. Instead, the dungeon was spacious but gloomy, featuring a simple bookcase, end table, couch, cauldron, and desk, all coated in a thick layer of dust. Crystals cast soft blue light over proceedings.

Various accouterments—beakers, flasks, cylinders, pipers, and more—rested atop the desk. Artoria recognized several objects as magical in origin, suppressing her distaste with difficulty. 

A worn journal and another note greeted her. She ran a hand along the book’s thick, bound leather. It felt similar to her hunting boots; both had experienced many things, each pockmark and scuff mark bearing this truth witness. Artoria read the note:

_Artoria,_

_I've enchanted this room so that none but you may enter. Herein lies your final test. Follow the instructions within the journal to the letter._

_Fear not, I, in my infinite wisdom, have equipped you with everything you will need to complete the ritual. It's not like I'll need any of it if I've got my when's lined up right. Even my mana will be at your disposal, lucky little one!_

Artoria frowned, baffled. Yet another test? Had she not proven herself time and time again throughout the years? Romans, Saxons, Picts, Gauls, and more had all yielded to her.

Doubt struck Artoria then, briefly, a sense of uncertainty regarding the quality and worth of everything she had accomplished. It faded, replaced by proud confidence and the underlining curiosity sparked by Merlin's original note. 

Merlin was a foolish magus; Artoria was a king guiding Britain through an unprecedented period of peace. She no longer had a need for his ridiculous tests, but she would follow his instructions anyway simply because she deigned to and because, for all that he annoyed her, Merlin would never cause her or her kingdom harm. 

Artoria flipped through the journal, sneezing upon disturbing the layer of dust. More instructions in Merlin's terrible handwriting lay before her. She crinkled her nose, rolled up her sleeves, and started working. 

First, she cleaned the room from top to bottom, scrubbing every crack and crevice. How much time passed, Artoria couldn’t say. There were no windows. It could’ve been for several hours; it could’ve been for several days. She rather enjoyed the task. It had been far too long since she'd done anything of the menial sort.

Once satisfied with the cleanliness of The Secret Mystery Dungeon of Magic and Vaguely Ominous Portent™, Artoria inscribed two strange pentagrams in chalk on the stone floor before lighting incense, the scent thick and cloying. Double-checking the journal for accuracy, she lingered over the twin mahogany boxes seated atop the desk. 

One contained a rock—a fossil upon closer inspection. Artoria traced the ridges of what was once snakeskin, the hair on her arms standing on end. She knew she touched something ancient. 

The other box contained a faded red cloth, ripped away from a piece of something much greater. Perhaps a cloak. Artoria stroked it, absentminded, before remembering her task. 

The final part of the ritual involved spinning around in a circle and uttering the phrase, "bippity boppity boo." Artoria found it rather embarrassing, glad none of her subjects were around to witness the act. 

Nothing happened.

Surprised, she did it again. She'd hoped it would be less embarrassing the second time around, but instead, it was even worse, somehow. 

Feeling exceedingly foolish, Artoria flipped through the journal, triple-checking she'd done everything correctly. A note cramped in a bottom corner of the text suggested trying the appendix of the journal if the ritual wasn't working. Artoria flipped to the back and read:

_I made up the part about spinning in a circle and all that. Just wanted to see if you would do it. I don't need to be a seer to know you did! You always were rather gullible, Art—_

In a fit of pique, she threw the journal against the wall and stormed out. Important duties awaited Artoria. This was a waste of time. 

...

Artoria and Guinevere were currently not on speaking terms. Since Lancelot and the rest of the knights remained out questing for the Grail, the young king had no one to converse with. Therefore she spent most of her time locked in her study, working.

However, only so much work could be done in times of peace. The issue with King Urien had been easily resolved; she learned early on that blustering often dissipated when confronted by implacable resolve. Artoria had mollified his pride by agreeing to hold a gala at Camelot. She rather dreaded the event _—_ although she would keep a stiff upper lip for the sake of her people—but organizing it kept her preoccupied.

Eventually, though, Artoria's thoughts returned to Merlin's cryptic test. One moment she was staring at the wall of her study, waiting for the ink to dry on a tax reform, and the next she was sitting on the couch in the Secret Mystery Dungeon of Magic and Vaguely Ominous Portent™, idly perusing his journal once more. 

It appeared to be some sort of summoning ritual. Merlin didn't tell her what she was summoning, because of course he didn't (" _Why spoil the surprise?"_ read an aside). Still, Artoria followed his instructions, reading the actual incantation out loud:

"Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Let each be turned over five times, simply breaking asunder the fulfilled time."

Shadows stirred to life.

"Let silver and steel be the essence. Let stone and the Archduke of contracts be the foundation. Let my great master Merlin be the ancestor. Raise a wall, against the wind that shall fall. Close the four cardinal gates. Come out from the crown. Rotate the three-branched road reaching the Kingdom..." 

Wind ruffled her bangs. A holy breath dampened her cheeks. The summoning circles glowed white. Brighter, brighter, ever brighter, until Artoria shielded her gaze. She continued chanting regardless, driven onward by the need to finish, to lay eyes upon the conclusion of her efforts. 

"I shall declare here. Your body shall serve under me. My fate shall be with your sword. Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail. If you will submit to this will and this reason… then answer!" 

Her voice deepened, strengthened by the passion of conviction.

"An oath shall be sworn here! I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven. I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell! From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power, come forth from the ring of restraint, protectors of the balance!" 

A thud. The size of the man she'd summoned reverberated from the floor up to her jaw. Eyes opening, Artoria craned her neck back, taking in the auburn-haired behemoth before her. He blinked and then grinned toothily at her. His face was open and warm. 

The other summoning circle remained empty.

"Oi, I suppose you're my Master then, huh?" He laughed, loud and boisterous, mirth lingering joyously in the rafters long after he stopped. Artoria stared. "I, Iskander, King of Conquerors, respond to your summons under the Rider Class! Our pact is now sealed."

He thumped an enormous hand, quite possibly bigger than Artoria's head, on his broad chest. Artoria continued staring. Iskander? _The_ Iskander? How could this be possible?

"... A familiar?" she asked at last, brow furrowed. The backs of her hands itched. Strange red tattoos now marked them both. 

"What an absurd proposal," Iskander declared. "I am something entirely different—you are in the presence of _the_ king!”

Artoria gaped. Unable to fully process the current events, she ignored him, approaching Merlin's journal instead. Every page had turned blank. Artoria thumbed through it in disbelief, before coming upon the final page, and his final words:

_King Arthur,_

_Through mine own machinations and that of the holy sangreal, thou hast summoned two ancient kings of great renown to serve thee. Cherish thy gift, for tis a miracle._

_Magna Servitus Est Magna Fortuna_

Artoria stayed quiet. Iskander's eyes burned into her back. At last, she met his gaze, steady. "And what of your true purpose?"

Some said eyes were windows into the soul, but she’d never given it much thought until that moment. Iskander’s brown eyes crinkled, the crow’s feet around them creasing upward like multiple miniature smiles. He stood over her, massive, hulking, dark red cloak billowing about his already impressive form. Artoria tensed despite herself. He drew his blade, brandishing it in the air before saying, “Where are your manners, boy? Fetch me a map! We must begin plotting the course of our glorious war. You may join my army as an honored vassal, and then we will partake in the shared joys of world conquest.”

“I am no child.” If there was one thing Artoria couldn’t abide, it was being mocked. Her mouth thinned. “And there will be no conquest. We are at peace.” 

Iskander tilted his head, owlish, before scratching his bearded cheek with the same hand that held his blade. Such carelessness. He looked at her as if she’d sprouted two extra heads. Then Iskander said, “I’d be willing to discuss compensation.”

Artoria’s responding glare was withering. “Do not insult me with ludicrous notions.” 

“Very well.” Iskander sheathed his sword, an abrupt but energetic act. The smooth _'_ _shnng'_ noise sang loudly in the silence. “Shall we break our fast, then? Yes, yes. A feast, where we eat, drink, and make merry. We can burst into valiant song, discuss the nature of our allegiance, and even deflower a few fair maidens together.”

He was mad, Artoria decided. As mad as Merlin, even. Then again, a man of such accomplishment—if he truly was Iskander as he claimed—likely had been born with an imbalance of humors to reach such dizzying heights of success. And what did that say about her, that she entertained such fools? Artoria sighed, resigned to her fate. Merlin was right; she was far too gullible.

“I shall have the servants prepare a meal. I suppose we can also have you accommodated with living quarters until your affairs are settled.” This mess was far beyond Artoria’s realm of expertise. Perhaps she’d contact Viviane for advice.

Iskander beamed and nodded vigorously. Then he paused, glancing over his shoulder before jerking a thumb in the direction of the adjacent pentagram. “And what of our companion?” 

Artoria followed the direction of his hand. She’d been so distracted by Iskander, she’d completely forgotten about the other pentagram. It looked, by all appearances, unused. But Merlin had mentioned _two_ kings in his note, and two strange, potentially blasphemous symbols also adorned her hands. 

“... What of him?” she asked, wary. Iskander blinked. 

“Well, how should I know, boy? I did not summon him.”

Artoria’s face grew hot. Her hands clenched into fists. “King Iskander. Call me boy one more time and you will taste my blade, and be humiliated in knowing defeat at the hands of a mere _boy_. For I am King Arthur of Britain, and will be treated thusly or not at all.”

Iskander narrowed his eyes. Beneath the affable veneer lurked a darker edge. Then it was gone, and he was smiling once more. “Such a shame—what a waste. Very well, Arthur. We still have not addressed the, ah, perhaps the servant in the room?”

No one not named Merlin had ever spoken so rudely to her. Not in many years, anyway. Artoria found it both deeply aggravating and strangely refreshing. Still, he was right. The mystery of the other king was more important than unnecessary posturing. She faced the empty pentagram.

“If you’re there, come forth,” Artoria said. 

No response. 

Not for the first time, Artoria felt rather foolish. Iskander’s stare bore down on her. She folded her arms and cleared her throat.

Still nothing.

“Heroic Spirit!” Iskander shouted so loudly that Artoria flinched. His hands were raised above his head, an idiotic smile blazing on his face. “If you’re too craven to reveal yourself, you will only draw the scorn of Iskander, King of Conquerors!” 

A brief, pregnant pause. 

Then there was light: bright and golden. It coalesced into the form of a beautiful man clad in armor the color of the noonday sun. He stood ramrod straight atop Merlin’s desk, and when he opened his wine-red eyes, he stared not at them but beyond them. Above them. Artoria took an immediate, immense dislike to the man. 

“So, two lesser beings dare name themselves king, even in my presence,” he stated distantly. 

Iskander was scratching his cheek once more. “I fail to see the issue. I am King Iskander, King of Conquerors.”

“What nonsense. I am the one true king. All others are mere pretenders.” 

Artoria gritted her teeth. He had not been the first to call her a pretender, and likely would not be the last. But she said nothing. She would listen more before passing judgment. 

Iskander’s expression was baffled. He ran a hand through his wild tangle of orange hair. The contrast between the two was stark. Iskander carried himself with relaxed, easy confidence despite his disheveled appearance. He looked as a man should look.

Everything about the other king was meticulous and coiffed. He was like one of those female peacocks that strutted about the court of Camelot from time to time, interested in drawing the eyes of men while simultaneously remaining aloof. Unattainable. Artoria’s lip curled with mild disdain. His eyes flickered in her direction briefly before returning to Iskander. 

“You are unwilling to negotiate, then?” Iskander asked at last. “Surely you appeared for a reason, or else you would not have answered the call at all.” 

“You should not try to understand that which is beyond your comprehension; it will only result in discomfort of the mind.”

Iskander stared at his own hand. Then he tapped his temple, bemused, before smiling wryly at Artoria. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

Artoria intervened. Clearly, both kings were mad. This was some sort of cruel final jest on Merlin’s part.

“You will not insult guests of my court. Or my own honor, either, for that matter. And if you are a true king as you claim, you won’t be troubled to give your name.”

He did not look at her. “Of course I am right. Perhaps you are not so dull as you look, pretender.”

Iskander frowned.

The man had _ignored_ her. Not only that, but defied a direct command she’d given. Artoria was taken aback and then infuriated by the abject insolence. A cold, hard rage filled her with a strange power. The tips of her fingers tingled and the back of her hand ached. 

**“Look at me. Now.”**

He faced her. The blank expression was gone, pale brows quartered across a dark face, red eyes narrowed and mouth drawn into a tight grimace. He stamped one foot and the desk crunched underneath, knocking over and shattering a glass flask. Pieces of parchment drifted to the hard dungeon floor. “You dare order me? I, the king? You—”

“Be silent!” Artoria drew herself up. It was a somewhat futile gesture, given her height, but it helped her feel better. The golden man started, mouth slack, before smoothing out into unreadable neutrality. He didn’t speak. **  
**

“Ah, so the Master asserts himself at last.” Iskander grinned.

“I will only ask once more: what is your name? And come down here and speak to me face-to-face as any real man would; you look ridiculous using a desk in a fashion so unsuited for its intended purpose,” Artoria said, slowly, carefully, articulating each and every word. 

A smirk crept across the golden man’s face. It was almost worse than the indifference in its smug arrogance. Artoria restrained herself from striking him. He smoothly jumped off the desk, landing on the ground with the grace of a cat, his earrings jangling in the flickering crystal light. He padded toward her, far taller, haughtily staring down his nose. Artoria bit the inside of her cheek.

“If, while basking in the presence of my glory, you cannot ascertain my identity, clearly the fault lies in your ignorance. I will allow you to refer to me as Archer, for you are unworthy of the truth. This conversation bores me.” Then Archer vanished.

She was trembling. Artoria closed her eyes and took a deep breath. In, out. In, out. Anger was childish. Anger could be manipulated. The emotions drained away. She felt detached and removed from the situation. Artoria opened her eyes and found Iskander watching her.

“You handled yourself well, Master Arthur,” he commended her. 

She peered around the room for any hint of Archer's presence. Only the broken flask and scattered parchment suggested he'd ever existed at all.

“King Iskander. I have proven myself hundreds of times over these past few years to various kings and warlords. Forgive my bluntness, for I suddenly find myself in a rather foul mood, but the compliment of a foreign ghost means nothing to me. I care little for either of your opinions.” She raised her voice by the end so that Archer could hear. A faint wind stirred before fading away.

“Fair enough.” Iskander seemed amused, which rankled. 

Artoria turned and left without another word. Iskander obediently followed suit. The dungeon door swung shut with an air of finality, but Artoria knew this matter was far from over.


	2. Chapter 2

Artoria couldn’t concentrate. She needed to finish drafting an apology on behalf of Sir Tristram for King Mark, but Iskander’s sprawled massive form kept drawing her eyes—and, inevitably, her attention. 

He reclined across his blood-red cloak like it was a mere blanket. One large, thick finger traced the map he’d spread out on the study floor. Iskander had raised quite a fuss until she’d relented and fetched him one. Now he was quiet, occupied, only the crinkle of parchment interrupting the silence. 

Iskander the Great. Artoria was tempted to break out her old history books, refresh her memory on his various accomplishments. One vivid anecdote from Merlin’s teachings involved Iskander’s first ever victory: he’d only recently been crowned king, forced to march and quell a series of revolts. 

His scouts had come across enemy warriors camped deep in the mountains. There was only one path forward, a narrow, steep chokepoint. The enemy had the high ground, and they’d set up a line of carts to send careening into Iskander’s approaching army. 

In response, Iskander devised a plan. His soldiers would shift formation, creating gaps for the carts to move through. If that failed, they’d join together and link shields, a pseudo-ramp for the carts to roll over instead. And it _worked_ , astonishing the enemy warriors so much that Iskander and his archers reached their encampment with little issue. 

Artoria had always remembered the story not for the tactical brilliance or ironclad discipline—although both were impressive—but rather the bravery and belief necessary for Iskander’s soldiers to hold their line while the carts barreled toward them. 

How many strategic maneuvers had Artoria orchestrated based on Iskander’s military genius? It was almost impossible to say. Everything he’d done had profoundly affected the course of history, from the Greeks to the Romans to her own land of Britain. A strange, almost shy insecurity struck her while watching him.

A knock on the door distracted Artoria.

“Enter.” 

In came a servant carrying steaming plates of food; roasted brisket flanked with baked potato and steamed vegetables, prepared in a manner both simple and bland. Artoria preferred it that way. The servant set down their food, eyeing Iskander warily, and then handed them two goblets of ale. Artoria nodded her thanks and the servant bowed in response before taking his leave. 

Iskander watched the proceedings, still silent, a puzzled frown tugging at his mouth. When the servant left he sat up, crossing his legs and folding his arms. “What sort of feast is this? You cannot have a feast for two! It’s impossible! Where is the music? The dance? The fools? The beautiful women? The good company?” 

He slammed a fist into the floor to emphasize his point. So unnecessarily dramatic. 

Artoria’s brow twitched. Her rather romantic feelings vanished in an instant, and she sipped her drink for additional strength.

“I’m not one for unnecessary frivolity, Iskander. And even if that were not so, your visit was unexpected. Such matters take time to prepare. There’s an upcoming gala, however, that you’ll perhaps find more to your liking.”

“Are you suggesting there’s such a thing as necessary frivolity?” Iskander rested his chin in his palm.

“Yes. It pacifies the nobles and offers the peasants and tradesmen a reprieve from their daily hardships.” 

“How cynical.” Iskander tore into his brisket, teeth bared, consuming it almost entirely in a single bite. He swallowed and pulled a face. Not for the first time, Artoria marveled over how _large_ Iskander was—and not just physically; his presence filled the room to the point where he was impossible to ignore. 

“Are you suggesting you wish to be me?” Artoria asked dryly. 

Iskander blinked and then laughed, loud and booming. “Only if I were not myself, nor could I be Diogenes.” 

Artoria smiled despite herself, neatly cutting her food into manageable chunks. She kept everything separated, not wanting the flavor of the meat to bleed over to the vegetables. She ate without paying attention to the taste, more interested in watching Iskander, whose current expression bore a remarkable similarity to a toddler.

“Pray tell me your grievances, King of Conquerors, for they appear legion.”

“I wouldn’t feed my horse this slop,” he said, complaining without hesitation, mouth still full of food.

She gestured at her own plate and asked, “It is worthy of a king, is it not?”

Iskander looked at her strangely. For some reason, the expression unsettled Artoria. He simply took a swig of his ale, however, belching afterward. She stared in response. 

“So when will we strike east?” he asked.

Artoria scoffed, annoyed. “Never. As I already said, we are at peace.”

She was tired of fighting. The clang of steel against steel echoed in the back of her mind, and her food took on a metallic aftertaste. Artoria’s mouth thinned. 

“Hmm.” Iskander rubbed his chin, thick fingers threading through coarse ginger hair. “I suppose it is good you have no interest in world conquest. The world cannot serve two lords after all. However, I find your policy the attitude of the natural slave. Your kingdom will grow fat and lazy, and the wolves will circle and devour you.”

“Then they will devour me. But never my kingdom—I will sacrifice my body as bread and my blood as wine before that happens,” Artoria said, cold and flat. 

“... You think how you look: small,” Iskander growled. His expression was that of pure, unbridled disdain. Artoria met his gaze evenly, but something unpleasant twisted in her stomach. 

“I already warned you once about insulting me, Iskander. I won’t allow it to happen again.”

The storm cleared. Iskander laughed, slapping his fist into his palm, grinning broadly. “Still, how marvelous it would be to return to my fair Macedonia. _They_ would surely hold a feast in my honor. Just imagine! Kukurec, dripping in oil and spices; pogacha, sprinkled in sesame seeds and dripping in yogurt; not to mention our famous white wine—ah, Arthur, are you well?”

Artoria realized she’d leaned forward in her seat. She slowly eased back, fighting off the heat in her cheeks, and drank to save face. 

“I’ve never visited. The farthest I’ve ventured is Rome,” Artoria admitted. And on rather unpleasant business as well. “Perhaps when the quest for the Holy Grail is completed, we can journey there.” 

“Hmm. Yes. The Grail. Is it strange that I have never heard of such an object, and yet it calls to me as though I had once held it in my hands?” Iskander turned thoughtful. He toyed with his half-eaten meal. “What will you do if your knights find it?”

Fluttering samite. A sweet scent wafting through the room. Artoria turned wistful. “I’ll tell you a secret, Iskander: I rather hope they don’t find the Grail.”

Silence. Artoria glanced up and saw Iskander quietly watching her. His large eyes were veiled. How strange, that he could be read at one moment like an open book, and next become a foreign enigma. The duality of man, she supposed. 

Artoria almost told him the truth, but something stayed her tongue. She knew if she did, Iskander would no longer respect her—and some small, selfish part of Artoria desperately desired his validation, no matter what she might say to the contrary. 

“Because if they are worthy of the Grail, surely their services are beyond my own employment. I would miss their company terribly.” 

Artoria thought of Lancelot, then. His laugh when they went hunting together. She thought of Guinevere, pining in her room. Artoria stifled a sudden, abrupt resentment.

Iskander watched her a moment longer, head cocked. Then he glanced down at his unfinished meal, grimaced, and pushed it aside.

…

Artoria ordered a meal delivered to Merlin’s Secret Mystery Dungeon of Magic and Vaguely Ominous Portents™. If Iskander couldn’t stomach his food, she doubted Archer would, but it seemed inhospitable not to at least offer her services. 

Then Artoria went and visited Guinevere. 

The quarters were demure. Pastel colors in lace and silk draped softwood furniture. The result was a room awash of all colors except the figure at its center. Guinevere sat alone, having dismissed her handmaidens upon Artoria’s inquiry, threading a needle through her embroidery. 

Guinevere’s hair burned so brightly in the afternoon sunlight, like a living flame. Artoria traced the wild curls, their careless tumble along Guinevere’s pale neck and slim shoulders, before resting at last, petulantly, near the neckline of her white dress. 

Artoria’s eyes briefly followed the shape of the bodice, and then settled on the embroidery in her wife’s graceful fingers. It was an abstract piece, the colors clashing into different shapes. Sharp red triangles meet with gentle blue circles; jagged yellow rectangles linked with placid green rhombuses. Artoria stood behind Guinevere and observed her work in silence.

“I’m still cross with you,” Guinevere said at last. She didn’t look up.

“I know.”

Guinevere set her needle down slowly, but with a finality that let Artoria know she’d said the wrong thing. “Then why do you still do nothing?” 

“You know why.” Artoria tried not to sound impatient. Sometimes she heard the misadventures of her knights—how they almost always, inevitably revolved around a woman—and struggled to understand _why_. What made it worth it? 

Artoria often found herself far more at ease in the company of men than any woman. Men were straightforward. Whenever she talked with a woman, Artoria couldn’t dismiss the notion that she was potentially stepping into a pit of vipers. 

“ _What_ are those on your _hands_?”

Artoria realized she’d absently touched Guinevere’s shoulder, rubbing the fabric of the dress between her thumb and forefinger. The red tattoos shone brightly in the dull light. Her hand dropped to her side, and she moved away, toward the window. “Unintended consequences.”

“They are garish.”

“I apologize.”

“If you were truly sorry, you’d send out a courier and bring Lancelot home,” Guinevere said. Artoria bit back a scathing retort. “You have left Camelot vulnerable and exposed for the sake of a fool’s errand.”

“He would never forgive me if I did. I will keep Camelot safe. Besides, I have recently received assistance from foreign dignitaries.”

A sharp intake of breath. “So it’s true. I heard rumors of a stranger sneaking into Camelot. Such subterfuge isn’t like you, My Lord.” 

“It wasn’t my idea.” Artoria scowled. How fast the truth had flown. Or a distorted version of it, anyway. “Merlin continues to haunt me beyond the grave.” 

Out in the courtyard, a young boy brushed down one of the warhorses. A stable hand, no doubt having just given the horse a much-needed workout. Iskander’s massive form lumbered into view. He began talking and gesturing, animated, in the direction of the stable hand, who even from a distance appeared terrified. 

“Although sneaking is, perhaps, a mild over-exaggeration,” Artoria added, smiling wryly. 

Iskander led the horse away (cheerfully waving as he walked off), leaving the stable hand standing there, looking at a loss. She made a mental note to check into that later and turned back toward her wife.

“I wish you would get angry. It would make staying wroth easier,” Guinevere said finally.

She sounded tired. She’d been looking older recently. The lines in Guinevere’s beautiful face were more pronounced, and when she frowned, it lingered longer around the corners of her mouth and eyes. 

Artoria, meanwhile, looked as she had the day she pulled the sword from the stone. Everyone around her was changing while she stayed the same.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” Guinevere picked up her needle. “What if Lance doesn’t ever come back, Art? What then?” 

“He’ll come back.” Artoria didn’t hesitate.

“How can you sound so sure?” 

Artoria leaned against the window ledge. “I fear if I were to elaborate, I would blaspheme.”

Guinevere looked afraid, then. It was naked and vulnerable, stripping the paint and humanity from her face. She had become a cornered animal.

“Why must you make everything so much harder than it needs to be?” Guinevere asked, plaintive. 

Artoria didn’t know how to respond. When dealing with spoiled kings and nobles, the right answers always came easily to Artoria—but in the presence of her own wife, she was a fumbling lackwit. 

…

Several days later, Artoria sat in her study once more. Books filled with the teachings and recordings of Plutarch lay scattered on the desk. She poured over the tomes, biting her lip, lost in thought. 

Artoria had not seen much of Iskander the past few days. He seemed content to explore the castle and grounds on his own, and as long as said exploration didn’t involve any form of pillaging or plundering, she wasn’t particularly bothered by it. 

Although the strange dreams were unsettling: shadows of memories that were not her own. Hopefully Viviane would help solve that specific conundrum, as Artoria had sent a letter requesting advice. 

A frazzled courier appeared, explaining the head cook wished to speak with her. Artoria was surprised—she had an open invitation for all the Camelot staff, although they rarely took her up on the offer—but granted him audience regardless. 

Cook Ewan came stomping in, dragging along a hapless young lad by the ear. He flung the boy to the ground (who sniveled rather pathetically) before spinning around to bow aggressively toward Artoria. “I want you to know, Your Grace, that this-this affront’ll be handled swiftly! I reckon if I’d known what tomfoolery this lazy, good for nothin’—”

“What on earth is the matter?” Artoria asked, alarmed by the violent display of emotion. Ewan stopped, the ruddy hue in his cheeks turning purple and then white, before taking a deep breath and scowling at the boy.

“Well, since you wanted a meal delivered to that there dungeon, I figured it must be for someone, since what else you goin’ do with food ‘sides eat it? So I been takin’ it upon myself to keep sendin’ food down there, and with the plates comin' back empty and all, I figured I about had the right of it. Only to discover that this lummox—!” He turned and glowered at the cowering kitchen scullion. “This lummox right here been hidin' out and eating the food all for hisself!” 

“I didn’ mean nothing by it!” blurted out the boy. “I just was scared b-b-b-because Gregor said I’d turn into a newt if I went near there!” 

And then he burst into big, fat, rolling tears. 

“Shut up, you blubbering idiot!” Ewan shouted.

Artoria stared, mouth ajar, slowly glancing between the two. She found herself stunned into silence not because a servant had been lazy or his overseer disproportionately upset, but because _she’d completely forgotten about Archer’s existence._

Or, perhaps forgot wasn’t quite the right term. She’d simply been so preoccupied with Iskander, and Archer had been such a nonentity in comparison, that she wound up paying the reality of his presence minimal attention. The awareness of his existence was still there, like a cockroach in the woodwork, just… unacknowledged. 

“Your Grace?” The anger faded somewhat from Ewan’s tone. Now he sounded concerned. Artoria’s mouth snapped shut and she straightened. 

“I appreciate your integrity, Ewan, in supplying more meals unasked,” she said at last. Ewan beamed. “But the—what’s your name, boy?” 

The scullion boy gawped, uncomprehending. Ewan also appeared taken aback.

“His name’s Cade, Your Grace.”

Artoria frowned at Ewan, who reddened. 

“I… uh… w-w-what he said, Your Grace,” answered Cade, needing a full two or three seconds longer to process the question. 

Artoria cleared her throat.

“Cade is correct. I am the only person allowed to enter that dungeon. In that regard, the mistake is mine.” 

“Wha—never, Your Grace!” Ewan protested.

Artoria ignored him, fishing a coin out of her drawer. She tossed it toward Cade, flashing gold in the candlelight, and he promptly dropped the coin with a loud clack. “Take the day off, Cade. As penance for my error.” 

Cade picked up the coin, turning it over and over again, watery eyes as large as saucer plates. 

“And what about me, Your Grace?” Ewan asked, a slight whine entering his voice.

“I’ll ensure the costs of the meals are covered. Do you believe you deserve more?” Artoria asked blandly. Ewan hesitated, blushed a deep, dark red, and studied his feet. 

“Never, Your Grace,” he mumbled sullenly. 

Cade wiped away the snot dripping down from his nose before shooting her a small, shy smile. 

...

As soon as Artoria entered The Secret Mystery Dungeon of Magic and Vaguely Ominous Portents™, she knew Archer was there. His rage simmered, a palpable entity in the empty room.

Despite this, everything was immaculate. In fact, Artoria couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that the room had been ripped apart and then meticulously put back together, like when she returned to her desk after a maid came through and found her things were close, but not quite, as she’d left them. 

“I brought you food.” Artoria set down a bowl of steaming porridge. She was surprised by her own guilt, and the inexplicable need to justify her own mistake. They’d only spoken once, but she already knew his opinion meant little to her. “I was busy.”

“... Busy.” The voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Are you also too busy to notice the sun rising in the east and setting in the west?” 

He made it remarkably easy to _not_ feel bad about forgetting someone. Artoria frowned. “It’s not something I give much thought to, no.” 

No answer. The temperature in the room rose slightly but noticeably. 

“Oh, come now,” Artoria said.

Sweat broke out on her brow, but she ignored her own discomfort. When it became clear Archer wouldn’t speak again, she sighed, long and drawn out, before moving about the dungeon.

“I intended to have the food delivered,” Artoria said. “But no one except myself can enter. For that, I apologize. You’ll be gratified to learn no one was turned into a frog.”

She realized too late that even if Archer was listening, he wouldn’t get the joke, and even if he did, he wouldn’t have cared. He came across as that sort of person. “If Iskander is to be believed, food isn’t a strict necessity for spirits such as yourself, anyway.”

No answer. Artoria began to feel slightly foolish.

“I have been contemplating what king you were,” she continued regardless. “Considering how self-important you believe yourself to be, I have decided one of two things must be true: either you are indeed a very famous king, which narrows things down a great deal, or you were a very insignificant king with a great ego, which perhaps could also be useful in identifying you, although it won’t be as simple.”

A brief wind stirred, carrying a hint of a spice almost but not quite familiar to her. 

Artoria paused beside a curious board game tucked away in the corner: she was certain it hadn’t been there before. She’d always had a soft spot for games. Kay used to accuse her of cheating when they were little, but Artoria was no scoundrel; she merely understood how to push a set of rules to their natural conclusion, guaranteeing victory in the process. 

“My first guess, at least for now, is King Artaxerxes III. The pigment of your skin leads me to believe you are some sort of southern king, even if your hair implies a more northern connection. Although there are many kings and emperors both of Persia. I have also considered you might be an ancient Pharaoh.”

The spicy scent grew stronger, an indignant tang underlying it. Artoria picked up one of the board game pieces and idly inspected it. It was cast in gold, the opposing pieces silver, and gleamed faintly in the crystal light. It struck Artoria as grossly excessive.

“Perhaps Sir Palomedes would have some insight into the matter. He is originally a Saracen, you know.”

Palomedes reminded Artoria of the matter involving King Mark and Sir Tristram. She sighed, staring off at the far wall. It was dull and grey, like much of Camelot. Artoria walked over to the couch (a gaudy, gauche thing—classic Merlin), and laid down upon it, gazing up at the equally bland ceiling. 

The silence was cold and condescending. 

“I recently wrote a letter to King Mark of Cornwall. One of my knights has been having an affair with his wife, and he demands reparations. This is not the first time I’ve dealt with this matter.” 

Tristram was an absolute twit, an airhead taken seriously only because he could play a harp and fight well. Artoria was half-convinced his dalliance with Isolde of Brittany had been because he thought her one and the same as Isolde of Ireland. 

The words spilled free, unchecked by social obligation or concern for the opinion of the listener. There was something oddly exhilarating about realizing she truly didn’t care what Archer thought. 

“With each passing year, it feels as if my knights cause more trouble than they prevent. Take Gawain, who has never seen a problem he didn’t try to solve with his fists. Perhaps that is unfair. The new knights are not like that: they give me hope for the future.”

With one major exception. Artoria paused, moody. The atmosphere remained oppressive and hostile, but it had eased somewhat.

“The old guard are bold warriors, and without them, I would not have stemmed the tide of Saxons that threatened to flood my kingdom. Together we rallied Britain, together we repelled the invaders. But now we are in times of peace, and most of them do not understand this. They are bloodhounds who grow restless when there’s no hunt.

The Round Table had been broken irrevocably. Perhaps it had been broken from the start, and the quest for the Holy Grail only made it apparent. She thought of Lancelot and felt a strange keening in her heart. Artoria half-wished he would never return, and yet, she still missed him dearly.

“It seems cruel, I suppose, to speak ill of those so loyal to me; to yoke them with a Sisyphean task. But I do not exist to love or be loved; similarly, to hate or be hated. I exist only to serve and protect the people.”

The atmosphere changed again, rapidly now. Wind chimes jangled softly, filling the humid air. Artoria wasn’t sure why, but she couldn’t shake the notion, the absolute certainty, that Archer was laughing at her. She leaped to her feet, posture aggressive, but no one was there.

Artoria was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're familiar with the various legends, I've meddled a bit with the timeline (not that it's truly linear given the numerous sources--for example, in some versions, Arthur is conquering Rome when Mordred stages his coup, while in others he's in France) because I want several characters there to interact with Gilgamesh and Iskander who wouldn't be around otherwise.
> 
> Also, I'm trying something with Artoria's character that isn't strictly canonical to the Fate series, but that I think could be an interesting take on the character. Idk, let me know what you think. 
> 
> And finally, Guinevere isn't going to constantly be a jerk, so don't worry, although I want her relationship with Artoria to be more contentious than I often see if portrayed as (in Fate fanfic, in the legends she's often a raging bitch lmao), because I feel that's more interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, it's been a while. The world is quite possibly ending, I still haven't finished Conversations about Anything and Everything, and I'm working on quite a few other projects concurrently. But... I missed this fandom. I missed these characters. And this is an idea I've been stewing over for some time now. Expect updates to be slow and please stay safe. 
> 
> Also, for anyone unfamiliar with how I approach Fate, I use the lore as a baseline but tend to ignore things that aren't conducive to interesting storytelling or fun character dynamics. In my opinion, anyway. It's cool if you disagree and feel free to point out mistakes, but chances are they're intentional because I don't really care, haha.


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